


One Word Prompts

by lieforfun



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpine - Freeform, Anxiety Attacks, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Depression, Hair Braiding, Hand & Finger Kink, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Nightmares, Oops, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, bucky barnes is hella touch starved, bucky is soft, i can't really write anything without it being sad can i, references to burn out, sambucky - Freeform, steve in a big ole' sweater
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24634498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lieforfun/pseuds/lieforfun
Summary: 50 One Word Prompts that I've stolen from @otp-imagines-cult on tumblr.(As of right now, there is only 1 SamBucky chapter. Skip to chapter 4 if you're not interested in Stucky.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. Mask

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of my 50 One Word Prompt challenge that I stole from tumblr, lol. Starting of heavy as hell so ya'll know what you're getting into.  
> This chapter was edited by me. All mistakes are my own.

Steve wonders if he’ll ever get the sound of slamming doors out of his head. The sound is deafening, like an ear worm. But it’s a feeling, too. It’s laced with ice and grains of sand so you choke on it the moment it invades your nervous system. Steve chokes every time Bucky forgets to stick his foot between the door and the jam, effectively stopping it from beating itself into the wall and saving Steve from an unsavory death by asphyxiation. 

“Sorry!” Bucky called out, wincing in solidarity as he walked in front of the glass office door to make himself visible to the blond inside. Bucky was carrying two grocery bags with the handles looped around the metal wrist, flesh hand working above his head to manage his unruly hair into a low ponytail. He paused in front of the office doors, unaware of Steve’s unrelenting gaze until he had tied off the rubber back and grinned into the off set room, meeting Steve’s eyes brightly. 

“Hey, asshole,” Bucky greeted him fondly, gently dropping his bags to the ground and opening the door to the study. “How’s it going in here?” 

Steve returned Bucky’s smile and leaned forward, pushing himself to his feet to pull the other man in for a hug. “I think the chair is going to suck me into another dimension,” Steve complained heartily with the curve of his nose dug into the dip in Bucky’s flesh shoulder. 

Bucky pressed a kiss to the side of the blonde’s neck, where he could reach. “Maybe take a nap? Oh, there’s some bath stuff I’ve hidden away behind the cupboard you’re more than welcome to help yourself to.”

It had to have been the overwhelming exhaustion, the sensory issues Steve had been dealing with in his home, or maybe the feeling of Bucky’s nails lightly scraping over the back of the long sleeve shirt he had donned to go downstairs and work, but Steve melted at the thought of a bath. It had been so long since he’d taken one purely for pleasure. Without an ounce of reluctance, Steve agreed. 

Steve was partial to podcasts, he’d learned. It was the easiest way to absorb information that didn’t require his entire focus, or his physical self. Nat had introduced him to podcasts a few months after he had returned from the ice, and he found that if he could listen to the right ones, the soothing voices helped. And if the podcast included more than one voice, he could pretend if for only a moment, that he wasn’t alone in his head. 

The American Military History podcast was one he had nearly caught up with, and it assisted in filling in the blanks during the time he was on the ice. He tried to convince Bucky to listen with him a few times, but Bucky had been adamant about not seeking out events in history where he might have been a contributing factor. Steve understood. So he listened to his podcasts by himself. 

The man’s soothing voice washed over their shared bathroom as Steve sunk as deep into the tub as he possibly could. The water lapped over his skin softly as he lay there, eyes closed and breathing deeply, allowing the words to dance over his skin but not quite grasp onto a thought process long enough to let the information stick. His focus sucked, the last few days. He wondered if the reason behind it was a lack of sleep, or some other routine issue that he was ignoring. But that didn’t make sense. He slept fine, in fact he often slept longer than Bucky some days. Usually after working on his manuscript, he’d end up napping before Bucky got home. Sleep was definitely not the problem. Eating wasn’t an issue, he ate with Bucky, so there was no time to forget to eat. It was an enigma, if you asked him. 

His fingers twitched beneath the water, causing a minuscule wave to burst across the surface tension like a running figure, only to break apart once hitting the bathtub wall at high speed. Steve lifted both hands to scrub at his brows with the heels of his palms. Moving them higher to slick the sweating hair on his head back against his scalp. Bracing them against the base of his skull. Time passed simultaneously too quickly and much too slow. The podcast hadn’t even hit the twenty-minute mark, and he was itching to get out. 

In an attempt to pull himself together, Steve breathed in as deep as he could, feeling his breath fill his lungs, stretching open like a wet, fleshy balloon. But he couldn’t feel his lungs fill all the way, and huffed in frustration. The steam and moisture in the air kept him from becoming a popped piece of latex litter. 

In the end, Steve spent about 45 minutes in the bath, forcing himself to relax his being into the scalding water and release the tension he’d held since he woke up that morning. Stepping out of the draining tub, he reached for a towel and scrubbing it over the skin of his face and ruffling it over the short hairs at the base of his neck. Wrapping it around his waist, he went to the sink to brush his teeth. 

Staring into the mirror, toothbrush sticking out of the side of his mouth like an animal tusk and paste smeared around his teeth, he noticed the growing bags under his eyes for the first time. He spit into the sink and reached beneath the cupboard to retrieve the mouth wash. 

His hand scraped against the warm boards as his nails scraped against a crack. Steve frowned, he would have noticed before the wood was cracking. Maybe he would need to call a carpenter, or it might be time to replace the cupboard all together, or maybe he’s just imagining things. 

He knelt down to get a better look, the towel sweeping under his knee at the adjusted angle. 

Sure enough, there was a crack in the wood. Though it didn’t look like any natural crack he’d ever seen. It looked as if it was sawed open, in a measured square outline, the shape nestled into the wall poked out just enough for him to catch his nails against it. If it was settled in all the way, there was no way he would have been able to see it. Steve reached in with both hands this time, using the tips of his nails to shimmy the piece out and see what was behind it. 

The wood popped out of the wall with little to no resistance, as if it had been popped out several times before. It was thin and flimsy with the use. Where it used to live in the wall was a small hole, where maybe a pipe might have lived years before they bought this house together. 

Inside the tiny cubby shaped property damage, was something Steve had never expected to see again in his life. 

There was a clatter on the table. Bucky lifted his head, slowly, having already known that Steve was in the room, only to see the soaking wet piece of muscle in a pair of black sweatpants in front of him. Steve’s eyes were stern, and his brows were knit together so hard that they looked as if they were made of stone. His mouth was set in a firm line. 

Bucky looked over at him, just for a moment, before looking down and settling his eyes on the item that met it’s unfortunate fate onto the kitchen table in front of Bucky’s book. Bucky’s fingers twitched, but other than that, he made no move. 

“Why?” Is all that came from Steve’s cartoon line of a mouth. 

Truthfully, Bucky didn’t know why. That’s why he kept it so hidden, so out of sight, that he was sure Steve would never find it, and that he would never unintentionally run into it himself. The full Hydra mask that lay still on the table was the only thing that he had left of that life, the one before Steve, and the one after Steve. He felt wrong, letting it go to someone else, to the Smithsonian or to some dealer who would sell it. So he took hold of the metal contraption and raced to safety with it. 

“Bucky,” Steve urged him. “Why do you have this?” 

Bucky sat back and leaned against his seat at the table, folding his page and closing his book with a thump. “Don’t freak the fuck out, it doesn’t mean anything.” 

“Like hell, it doesn’t mean anything. You had it stashed away like a secret fucking cocaine addiction!” Steve does this thing, Bucky thinks, where his voice gets louder, but he doesn’t realize it. The longer he speaks the more he shouts, shooting unintentional venom at his prey who happened to be an unsuspecting Bucky Barnes, just trying to finish his novel. “You obviously didn’t want me to find it.” 

Bucky lowered his head, chin pointing back down to his thighs as he continued to stare down the mask. The curvature of the mouth and throat brought his mind elsewhere. “Please keep your voice down,” Bucky muttered, and Steve sighed heavily and slumped his body into a chair opposite of the brunette. An obvious show of surrender and frustration. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, leaning forward to rest his forehead in the palms of his hands, fingers dug into blonde strands of hair sticking out between the knuckles. “I just...I thought you were doing well. If I had known…” 

“If you had known, you would have reacted exactly the same.” Bucky stated. “Which is why I didn’t tell you. So if you’d shut up for half a second, wouldja’ let me explain?” 

Steve peaked out underneath his palms to stare back at the brunette, and sighed. “Please.” He breathed. 

Bucky nodded. He reached out to grasp the mask in his hand, the metal bleeding coolness into the fatty pads of his fingers. He waited to feel something, a flashback, a recurring nightmare, anything, but he only felt numbness towards the accessory. 

“It doesn’t mean anything to me.” He started, his eyes flicking up to meet Steve’s if only for a moment. “It represented a time where Hydra controlled every aspect of me, mind and body. They controlled my actions all the way up to the point where they decided when I opened my fucking mouth.” He gritted his teeth. “But that’s not what this mask means to me. It symbolizes the blip in time where you didn’t own me. Where _ I _ didn’t own me. It’s the only thing I have from those 70 years that isn’t attached to my body. I wasn’t ready to get rid of it.” 

“I see.” 

Bucky placed the mask onto the table again, leaning back into his chair again. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you have something to say to me?” 

“No.” 

“What did the mask mean to you?” 

“Apparently more than I thought it did.” 

Bucky looked at Steve earnestly, wanting to convey every thought and emotion running through him into a single look, and Steve stared down at the table as if to avoid a conversation he didn’t want to have. 

“Steve,” Bucky began as he reached forward to grasp one of Steve’s hands in his own. “I know you’re worried about me. I would be worried about me too, in your situation. It’s been years since I’ve come back.” He pressed a kiss to the blonde’s knuckles, taking note of how Steve’s eyes fluttered closed at the contact. “I’m coping. Therapy, work, finding things that I enjoy. I’m at peace with who I am now. But you’re stuck, and I’m worried about you.” 

Steve’s eyes shot up in a frown, and he yanked his hand out of Bucky’s grasp in an attempt to get as far away from the other man as he could while still residing at the table. “Why the hell are you worried about  _ me _ ?” He said coldly. “Nothing happened to me.” 

Bucky pulled back to sit in his own chair comfortably, and gave Steve a sad smile. “That’s not true, and you know it. You grew up barely having enough money to keep a roof over your head, much less eat properly. You watched your mother die of cancer, and then you underwent untested human experimentation only to watch your best friend fall to his death on a train. You froze underneath the ocean only to wake up in a world that doesn’t make sense to you, only to be forced to fight aliens and experience warfare like no one ever has before. You have PTSD, Stevie, and it’s stupid to even think that you don’t.” 

Bucky couldn’t have fathomed the amount of hate in Steve’s glare, but he certainly could feel it. The rage sinking below the bruised eyes, hanging just beneath the exhaustion that crowded in the crows feet, and lines above his brow. Visible to anyone who might be unlucky enough to gaze upon Steve Rogers. 

Bucky knew, though, he knew. He saw it in the way that Steve no longer had the fight in him to wake up with Bucky for breakfast, like they did when they were younger, since the nightmares kept him fidgeting in his sleep. He saw it in how Steve locked himself away for hours upon hours a day, insisting he needed to finish his manuscript. Bucky saw it in how Steve never seemed to recognize the food he shoveled into his mouth, but never complained when Bucky sat down to eat next to him. But Steve swore up and down that he never remembered them, though there’s a kind of underlying pain you can only see from someone who was fighting themselves. When Bucky had invaded the study to place a book back on the shelf one day while Steve had fallen asleep on the couch, the notebooks littered around the study were empty. 

Bucky stood quickly, shoving the chair back behind him by accident- the noise it made caused both men to jump. 

“Sorry,” Bucky murmured, a tiny echo of the moment he stepped through the door that afternoon. He reached forward to grasp the mask in his fist before making his way into the kitchen and dropping it into the trash. 

“Buck-” Steve started, likely about to go off about how Bucky doesn’t have to do that for him, if he wants it, he can keep it, yada yada. But Bucky stopped him by raising his left arm. 

“I can take care of myself, Steve.” He said, not unkindly. “I want you to know that I can. You just have to let me.” 

Steve didn’t move at all for a long while. When he did, he nodded softly. 

Bucky gestured up the stairs, a nonverbal communication that he wanted to go to bed. Steve followed. 


	2. Sleeve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is obsessed with the sleeves of Steve’s sweaters. Steve notices, and wears his sweaters more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by Bethany Styles. B.ethanystyles on Insta.

Saturday night usually means something to people, normal people. It means getting to have a break, or it means plans with friends or whatever the fuck the other human beings mean to them. It means getting to watch a movie, and sleeping in the next day tucked away with a partner. Sometimes it just means lying down on the floor with your cat while  _ Friends _ reruns play in the background to fill the silence.

Bucky was in such a position, lying on his back in front of the couch, the carpet digging into his skin. Alpine curled up comfortably in the crook between his neck and shoulder. His eyes were closed serenely as he let the sound of the TV wash over him, he could feel the soft prickles of Alpine’s fur against his skin. He lay there peacefully with the warmth of the sun shining over him through the large window towards the porch. 

He heard Steve’s footsteps before he saw the man himself, the sound of his footfalls becoming long since recognizable from the year that he had met the idiot as a child. He was louder and clumsier then, but he was still Steve. 

Steve made his way through the hallway and into the open kitchen where Bucky could see him by just turning his head slightly to the right. The man looked absolutely exhausted. He was sleep ruffled from head to toe, his hair sticking wildly in tiny straw colored bundles from sleeping on one side too long.The dark bags under his eyes would have been enough to tell Bucky that he had been sleeping, and sleeping _ hard _ , if he wasn’t dressed in one of the biggest sweater’s the brunette had ever seen. 

“I thought your days of anemia-induced freezing were over,” Bucky stated from across the room. 

Usually, Bucky always had something to say about the items that Steve not only brought into their home, but also had the audacity to put on his body, as if Bucky wasn’t  _ right there _ to turn and ask “Hey, Buck, does this match?” as if Bucky didn’t have a reputation for being absolutely fabulous. Or Steve just decided that an episode of  _ Queer Eye  _ was too much trouble for him. No, this time, Steve walked into their kitchen in a heavy knit sweater that seemed to eat him up, the way any clothing would do before he was a solid brick wall of muscle and stubborn. The length of the sweater fell below Steve’s crotch, ending at the middle of his thighs like a skimpy dress if only the extra fabric didn’t seem to drape around him like a curtain. It looked heavy too; it was at least a good ten pounds of weight hanging over Steve’s shoulders. God, his _ shoulders. _ The size of the collar seemed to be tripled what was necessary for him, which happened to be a running theme. It was wide around Steve’s neck and baring just enough skin that his collar bones popped out gorgeously. A display that in Bucky’s opinion, should be illegal in public settings. The last thing Bucky noticed, to his dismay, were Steve’s sleeves. 

They bunched up around his wrists like beige pythons wrapping around their prey, forcing the man’s comically large hands to look small and dainty when he lifted them to start the coffee maker. Bucky unconsciously licked his lips as he watched. 

“What are you, the clothing police?” Steve muttered, squinted eyes staring into the coffee pot as it dismally started on its chore as if the machine would defy gravity and force the dark liquid out faster. 

“As a matter of fact,” Bucky replied. 

Their words breaking up the hypnotic sounds spewing from the television disturbed Alpine’s peace, the feline lifting her head pointedly before stretching her body out in such a way that her asshole came into Bucky’s view. He rolled his eyes and lifted himself up off the floor as well, getting to his feet as Alpine slinked away with a graceful strut into their bedroom. 

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Steve stated with a lazy smile, blinking out the rest of the sleep stowed away in there. The coffee pot hummed it’s production softly. 

Bucky made his way into the kitchen to stand behind the blond, wrapping his arms around the other’s soft covered tummy and dug his face into Steve’s shoulder. 

“You don’t,” He said, his voice muffled by the fabric, “But you look comfortable. I’m jealous.” 

Steve huffed, like the beginning of a laugh he didn’t have the energy to complete. Bucky smiled into the thick patterned fabric that dug into his nose. 

They stood like that for a time, letting the easeful moment draw itself over their shoulders in velvety synchronization, basking in each other’s presence without a need for it to come to an end any time soon. Bucky was well aware of the novelty of days like this, where neither had to leave to play a dangerous game built by governing societies, where they were allowed rest even if it was a momentary stolen gem. He was grateful that their running was over. That they lived in peace solid and substantial enough to grasp onto, a fathomable sturdy ladder to grpp rather than a fraying and fragile rope a weak fist could only pray for. Something that could beg to be stolen again. 

Bucky lifted his head slightly, just enough to pop his nose out from the warmth of the sweater, and reached around the blonde to grasp onto the pooled lengths of fabric around Steve’s wrists and tugging lightly. 

“Yeah?” Steve stated, but Bucky didn’t reply, and Steve did nothing to stop his advances. Using the fabric as almost a leash, Bucky pulled Steve’s wrists around behind him, crossing them handcuff style and using one hand to hold them in place. As he did so, Bucky began to kiss against the warm skin around Steve’s neck, not covered by the thick sweater, layering the soft press of his lips with small nips and stripes of his tongue. Steve let himself fall into it, leaning his head to the side to allow Bucky more space to work, and Bucky reached down with his free hand to skim the edges of the sweater. 

And, god, Steve was so beautiful like this. So small and perfect, sleep-weary and muddled senses forcing a type of sensitivity he would never allow free range during the day, or around anyone other than Bucky. Steve’s mouth was parted and eyes shut, and Bucky could almost feel the blonde give him everything he had to offer. 

Bucky smiled into a kiss he pressed against the skin behind Steve’s ear, feeling the man shudder as he ran his fingers into the skin underneath the sweater. His fingers graced against the band of the shorts Steve wore before hitting that soft flesh just above it, sliding against it momentarily before exploring higher. 

“Buck,” Steve muttered, an almost habitual act to cease all proceedings and at the same time, a plea for more, a ghost of anxiety fluttering over the sound of their increasing heart rates. Bucky squeezed Steve’s wrists in confirmation. 

“I’m here, darlin’,” Bucky whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.” 


	3. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is obsessed with Bucky's hands, metal and human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by me. All mistakes are my own.

Steve woke with a start, his body involuntarily throwing itself up into a nonexistent fight, muscles acting on impulse as he took his first conscious breath of the day. His lungs felt like fire and smoke against the pink meat, angry and agitated with every twitch and stretch he forced his chest to  _ move, move goddamnit.  _ Hysteria flooded his veins like an infection built in his damn blood, a rampant, dirty infection that closed his throat and peeled his eyelids open against the dusty air, mouth a solid O in a silent scream and -

And suddenly the heavy pressure behind his eyes lessened, and his shoulders relaxed, though his eyes flitted around the dark room as soft anxiety filled the freezing empty space in his chest where panic lived moments ago. 

His head shot to the side, coil wound so tight in his chest and stomach that even the slightest movement from the space beside him in his own bed could cause it to snap. His shoulders slumped once more in relief, the wild tousled brown locks of his partner the only recognizable thing on Bucky’s body that could be seen from above the quilt he wrapped tightly around him. Steve lifted his hand, taking note of the slight tremor in his wrist and fingers as he reached over to sooth Bucky’s waking form. 

“Hey, sorry I woke you up.” Steve whispered, fondness bleeding into his chest as he saw Bucky blink blearily up at him. 

“What time is it?” The roughness that coated his smooth baritone voice was enough to make Steve melt, but it was when Bucky stretched his arms up over his head that Steve stopped paying attention. “Steve?” 

Steve’s eyes were focussed solely on Bucky’s outstretched fingers, watching them closely as they curled into fists in the air, twisting until a light snapping came from the one flesh-and-bone wrist Bucky still claimed as his own. The curve of his knuckles catching the attention of Steve’s adhered eyes as Bucky went right to popping each one singularly. Steve couldn’t see much more than the silhouette of those fingers, but he could tell you exactly where each and every one of the brunette’s veins lay gorgeously below his skin. A painting of blue and purple watercolors dancing gracefully over his muscles. A performance.

Steve swallowed. “Huh?” 

Bucky chuckled warmly through the darkness. “Time, my love. What is the time?” 

“Half past ‘time to go back to sleep.’” Steve replied cheekily, finally tearing his eyes from Bucky’s hands (resting innocently back on the quilt) long enough to lay back down into his pillows. 

Steve could see Bucky’s smile in the shadowy darkness, and returned it. 


	4. Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask Prompt: Hair braiding

“Dude, your hair.” 

Bucky frowned, his arms full of boxes hauled from the van downstairs. Sam could barely stifle his laugh from behind his own boxes. The man’s hair had been whipped around by the wind, been pushed into his face, and scattered in a helmet of friz, creating a curtain over his face that couldn’t be tamed. With his hands full of boxes, he couldn’t reach up to smooth it back just yet. 

“What about it?” Bucky asked defensively, the poof of brown strands effectively covering his eyes when he paused to look up at Sam. 

Sam managed to hold in his snicker. “Just, fuck… Come here. Set this down.” 

Bucky complied, but not without a smidge of hesitation. Once the boxes were settled firmly on the floor of their new apartment, Sam immediately came forward to fuss over the other man’s hair. 

“It’s a goddamn mess...what do you even do with this much hair? No- hold still damnit! ...It’s dry as hell Barnes- do you even know what conditioner is!” 

In the end, Sam had Bucky wrestled to the ground in a crossed legged position, arms folded against his chest while Sam perched on the edge of their couch in the middle of their living room that was yet to be put together. Sam deemed this a priority issue, even though they had several moving boxes still left out in the van. 

Bucky grumbled until the moment Sam touched his scalp. A soft feeling hairbrush, seemingly materialized out of thin air, started at the ends of his hair and gently worked its way up to the roots. In between brush strokes, Sam ran his fingers through the strands and Bucky began to melt. 

Once his hair was thoroughly brushed out and out of his face, Sam placed the brush down beside him on the couch. He pulls the length of Bucky’s hair up off his neck and lightly scratched at the base of his skull. 

Bucky felt his shoulders nearly collapse, shuddering tensely. The feeling shot through him like lightning and he felt his muscles instantly fall slack. 

If Sam noticed, he didn’t say a thing about it. “You should let me braid your hair,” Sam laughed. “Keep it out of your face.” 

“If it means you scratch my head again, you can do whatever you want with my hair.” Bucky muttered, shutting his eyes. “Just don’t cut it.” 

Sam chuckled, holding the other man’s hair in his grip and running his nails over the top of Bucky’s scalp, feeling him tremble under the soft touch. “I planned to do no such thing,” Sam replied softly as he zeroed in on the man’s micro reactions. Bucky’s shoulders seemed to slump forward, his neck having a harder and harder time holding his head up straight, and instead of crossing his arms and legs, he had one leg pulled up to his chest with both arms hugging the limb. “You never really had anyone play with your hair before?” 

Bucky sighed, and to Sam’s dismay, began to tense up again. “Not really,” Bucky replied. Sam continued to stroke the crown of his head as he spoke. “When I was younger, livin’ with Steve, girls would grab or mess with my hair, but nothin’ like this. Nothin’ soft.” 

Sam’s heart clenched in his chest. He knew all too well what Bucky’s life had been like before this, before them, and every time he thought about it he just wanted to pull the man closer and hold him.

Sam let go of the length of hair he was holding, took both hands and ran his fingers through it, simultaneously running his nails along the man’s scalp. The noise that escaped Bucky’s throat could be seen as the definition of bliss, a high whine that quickly died out once the man realized it had escaped. Sam could see the start of a blush high on Bucky’s cheekbones, and he smiled. 

“Shut it,” Bucky mumbled, hearing Sam snort behind him. 

Sam began to french braid Bucky’s hair, feeding the strands through the elegant knots and tying it off at the end. Once done, Bucky was leaned forward in a resting position, eyes closed and face warm. Sam caressed the back of his neck with his thumb, just under Bucky’s hairline as he pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Sam copied Bucky’s slump and leaned forward to rest his face in the juncture where the man’s neck meets his shoulder, slipping his hands underneath Bucky’s arms to wrap around his torso and pull him closer. 

“You are just- so beautiful.” Sam joked, though he nearly choked on the words. “The most stunning woman I ever’ laid eyes on.” 

“Shut the hell up, Wilson.”


End file.
